


One Step at a Time

by Dark_Aegis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Needs A Hug, M/M, Post The Great Game, S2 didn't happen, so does Sherlock (but he won't admit it)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Aegis/pseuds/Dark_Aegis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Requiem for a Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm just borrowing them, I'll put them back nicely when I'm through, honest.
> 
> A/N: Thanks to for her encouragement and BRing. Thanks, too, to and for giving this a look over and for Brit-picking. This fic has been a LONG time coming. Once upon a time, there was a little LJ community called and I signed up. won me and asked for Sherlock fic. This is the much belated result. My apologies for the delay (life happened, killed the muse, and now it's back). As a note, this is an AU from Series 1. In this universe, S2 didn't happen. I anticipate having the next chapter up by the end of the week.

**Chapter 1: Requiem for a Holmes**

**April 22, 2010:**

“This is, quite frankly, the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Mycroft says. There is little to no inflection in his brother’s words, but there doesn’t have to be. His face, his stance and his eyes say it all for him.

“It is the only way.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “The only way?” he echoes.

His brother is going to make him say it, isn’t he? Of course he is. Never could leave things well enough alone. Always meddling. He has analysed his choices and this is the only one that has the least probability of failing. “Obviously,” he snaps. “In all likelihood you will not have to tell -“ He pauses - only for a moment, but it is enough. 

“John,” Mycroft says and it makes him wince. 

He can’t think about...John. It might very well break him. “Yes. Two weeks. A month at the most.”

“You do not understand, Sherlock, just what you ask. I will be the only one who knows you are alive. You, of course, know what it will do to John should he-”

“Don’t say his name,” Sherlock snarls. “I am finished with this conversation, Mycroft.” 

“Do you want to know if he wakes?” Mycroft asks and Sherlock stills, feeling as though all his breath has been forced from his body.

“Of course I’ll want to know.” This is the only way he’ll be able to save John. 

“This will hurt him, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” he snaps with an impatient wave of his hand. He knows what this will do to John. Of course he knows that. He has to forget. Just until John’s awake, and until then he’ll do his best to forget about his friend. Better that way. Fewer distractions.

“You, too, I think,” Mycroft adds in an undertone.

He turns on his heel but, before he leaves the room, he pauses, bowing his head as he states. “Watch over him.”

Sherlock walks out the door, but not before he hears Mycroft’s, “Of course.”

*****  
April 25, 2010:**

Hollywood loves to put a spin on comas. They like to think that someone wakes from it all at once, the name of a loved one on their lips or even a simple gasp. Most often, it starts in spurts. Slight movements, a twitch of a finger, a turn of the head. But there are the rare occasions where Hollywood gets it right.

John Watson’s life is a bit like a Hollywood film.

“SHERLOCK!”

The sound of his friend’s name reverberates through the room as John sits bolt upright, his heart doing its best to pound out of his chest. Pain shoots through him at the movement and he feels something detach from his arm and clatter onto the floor. “God,” he mutters, shutting his eyes as he tries to get his bearings.

He’s in hospital. Obviously. The heart rate monitor is sounding an alarm and there’s bound to be someone stopping in at any moment now. What the hell happened? There was...a pool. He can smell chlorine - faint, hardly noticeable over the antiseptic, but enough to tell him he must’ve... Oh, god.

The _bomb. Moriarty._ Sherlock!

“Welcome back, Dr Watson,” someone says.

John pulls in a shocked breath, opens his eyes and turns toward the source of the voice. “Mycroft.” His voice cracks on the name and he swallows painfully. His mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton wool - a feeling generally produced by some of the better drugs. 

The man looks tired. It’s not a familiar look for him. John’s used to seeing Mycroft unflappable, his suit immaculate, his expression eternally calm. That, above the circumstances, makes his heart drop somewhere near his feet. “Where’s Sherlock?” he asks.

“We’ll have to wait until after you’ve been checked out for any questions,” Mycroft replies, his face once again calm, as he reaches for the call button resting on the side of his bed.

A few moments later, the door opens - private room, Mycroft’s doing no doubt - and two people enter. From their dress, they’re undoubtedly medical personnel. “Mister Watson, you need to lie down. You could do yourself more damage this way,” the doctor - Powell, the nametag says - tells him.

“Doctor,” he replies. 

“Pardon?”

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” he corrects.

“Of course,” Powell says and comes to his side, encouraging him to lie back down. “Sister Finley, 12 mls of morphine and another IV line.” That’s apparently what he pulled off when he first woke up. 

The woman nods. “At once, Doctor.” 

Powell shines a light in his eyes, measuring their dilation. “Doctor Watson, you have been seriously injured in an explosion. Upon your admission, our greatest concern was your head injury. Your skull was fractured in four places and swelling was a great concern for the first two days. It’s since gone down, but we will still need to monitor you for any adverse effects from your injury. You have been in a medically induced coma for three days.”

Three _days_? Oh, god.

The nurse returns with the medication and Powell administers it with a deft injection into the canula. The nurse fusses with the IV, reattaching it while Powell talks. “You’ve also suffered severe contusions on your abdomen and your arms. Your ankle bone is cracked and you will have to stay in a cast for the next four weeks. You will regain full mobility within the next six months provided you follow the physical therapy regime we will give you. Your latest scans have revealed that the swelling has gone down, so we expect a full recovery.”

“Thank you, doctor,” John says. The medication is starting to kick in. His head now feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool - a twin to his mouth.

“You’re welcome. Rest, now. If you need anything, press the call button.” Powell nods at Mycroft and he and the nurse leave the room.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asks; no, it’s a demand. Asking implies that there is another answer besides ‘in the room next door’. Asking implies that he’s willing to tolerate bad news, because he isn’t, damnit.

Mycroft suddenly meets his gaze, startling him into realising that for the past several minutes, even before the doctor came in, the other man has been looking anywhere but at him. “What do you remember about that night?” A question in response to a question.

John glares at him and is surprised when Mycroft flinches - _flinches_.

“Please.”

It’s the please that does him in. “I...” The memories are hazy, now that he tries to think back to that night. He remembers Moriarty. And the pool. “Bomb. There was a bomb. It...went off? I got Sherlock and myself into the pool and...I don’t remember after that. Mycroft, where’s Sherlock?” 

Mycroft sighs, suddenly looking far older than he is. “I’m sorry, John.”

No. Oh, god, no. “No.”

“We found him next to you. You must’ve pulled him out of the pool, but...”

No.

“He didn’t...”

NO.

“...make it.”

“No. No, no, no. He can’t be.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft repeats. “Sherlock’s dead.”

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, but he’ll be damned if he lets them fall now. “And...Moriarty?”

“We didn’t find a body.”

*****  
April 28, 2010:**

From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:

I don’t know how to even start this. Many of you know I’ve been in hospital for the past few weeks, but what you don’t know is this:

There was a bomb. Sherlock died. I lived.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

I used to say nothing happens to me. Too much has since then. And, god help me, I don’t know what’s supposed to happen now.

*****  
April 29, 2010:**

His progress up the stairs is interrupted by frequent breaks and the smack of the cane as he uses it to keep the weight off his ankle. He forgot the annoyance of having to deal with a cast and everything else related to it. He thinks Sherlock would’ve laughed knowing that for now, at least, his limp isn’t so psychosomatic any more.

Sherlock. Bloody hell.

John grits his teeth and makes it to the landing, huffing like he’s just done a mile at full sprint than just seventeen stairs. His hand shakes a little as he slips his key into the lock, opening it and the door to their rooms.

His rooms, now. Not theirs. God.

Everything looks the same. 

Strange. He would’ve thought something would feel different, would _be_ different, after everything that’s happened. Besides a fine layer of dust that covers their belongings, it could be like any other day at 221B Baker Street.

He hobbles to his chair and settles into it with a weary sigh. His ankle is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and for a moment he has to fight off a slightly hysterical laugh. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. It’s supposed to end with the two of them safe and secure in the knowledge that this was one more bullet dodged, one more time they were able to defeat the enemy and come home triumphant.

Doesn’t feel like a triumph now, does it?

John closes his eyes and tries to swallow the scream - or is it a sob? - that threatens to emerge with every breath. Damn this. Damn all of this.

“Whoo-oooh!” Mrs Hudson calls as she climbs the stairs. “John, love, I’ve brought the shopping in. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

He grits his teeth to try to prevent the shout of ‘leave me the hell alone’ that threatens to leave his lips. Mrs Hudson means well, and he should let her fuss for a while. It’s cathartic, right? John sighs and buries his face into his hands. What’s he supposed to do now?

Oh. He’s an idiot. Just as much of an idiot as Sherlock always insisted he was. He can’t just sit here and mope. He won’t just give up. That isn’t the John Watson he is now. 

Sherlock’s shown him the way. It’s up to John to follow.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replies absently.

Moriarty. It all comes back to that bastard. He’d love nothing more than to wrap his fingers around that man’s throat and strangle him for what he’s done. No, strangling is too easy. There are other options. He didn’t just learn how to be a soldier while he was in the army. He learned what it was like to be a prisoner of war, and the insurgents were rather inventive when it came to torture. John shakes his head, dismissing the violent thoughts.

Moriarty needs to be stopped, once and for all. He knows Mycroft is probably devoting his rather considerable resources to the matter, but that doesn’t count. It isn’t personal for Mycroft, not the way it is for John.

John’s clever enough to realise that he can’t start with Moriarty himself. That will be his final goal, of course, but he needs to start near the bottom, first. He’ll focus on the idiots who benefit from Moriarty’s “help”. One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge. 

He flinches when someone - Mrs Hudson, he identifies. Finished with putting the shopping away, obviously - rests her hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologises.

“It’s fine,” he replies, turning his head to look at her. She looks older now, more careworn. 

“Cuppa?” 

“Yes. Yes, thank you.”

“And some biscuits?” she offers.

He nods. “That would be lovely, thanks.”

“Just this once, mind. Not your housekeeper,” she says, though they both know it’s a lie.

“Right.”

She squeezes his shoulder once and moves into the kitchen. John covers his face with his hands and simply thinks. He has to find a starting point. Maybe Lestrade can help, or even Mycroft.

Tomorrow is Sherlock’s memorial service - thankfully delayed until he was considered fit to leave the hospital. He’ll ask them then.

*****  
May 5, 2010**

He doesn’t know why he came here. No, that’s a lie. He knows exactly why he came here. It’s supposed to be calm and peaceful. He can almost hear Sherlock’s voice asking ‘isn’t it hateful?’ Sherlock would have hated this.

Hell, _John_ hates this. The memorial service was bad enough. This, though. This is final. An end.

John’s throat closes on him and he feels tears gather in his eyes. He doesn’t let them fall. Instead, he forces himself to rest his hand on the cool stone. “Hello, Sherlock. I-I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner. No. That’s a lie. You know that’s a lie. Well, would’ve known. God. I just...Sod this. Sod all of this. I just want one thing from you. Just one. Please don’t let this be true. Just pinch my arm, wake me up from this nightmare. Be alive, damnit. Please. That’s all I ask.”

He swallows painfully. “You are...were...are the best friend I could ever have. I just...I wish. I miss you.” 

John can’t continue. He wants to tell Sherlock his plans. He wants - what? A blessing? He’s not going to get one. He can’t. Sherlock’s...

A tear drops, trailing down his cheek, and he wipes it away angrily. His last regret is this. Sherlock’s dead - the pathologist’s report was conclusive. He didn’t have the chance to see the body at Mycroft’s insistence. It would’ve been too painful. He knows that. Intellectually, he knows that. However, despite the trauma of seeing a body burnt beyond all recognition, it would’ve been something more than a simple closed coffin. 

There is no closure, not for him. There’s just this - a cold stone inscribed with Sherlock’s name and the memory of a man who helped him learn how to live again. 

******  
May 10, 2010:**

Greg Lestrade’s expression is a study in concern. “Are you sure you want to do this, John?”

“What sort of question is that? I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” If John’s response is a bit sharp, he thinks it can be forgiven. It’s hard enough to be here, in Lestrade’s office, without Sherlock. 

Greg sighs. “I had to ask. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I know. Anything’ll be of use. Strange crimes. Deaths that seem too perfect. That sort of thing,” John replies.

“I’ll do what I can.” Greg rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand, suddenly looking far older than he truly is. “How...how’ve you been? We haven’t seen you at the pub.”

“Been a bit busy.” That’s a lie, though. Going to the pub, having a few drinks, stumbling home after? That’s a dangerous road to start travelling. God knows the Watsons have addictive personalities. No. It’s far easier to carry on as he has been. 

He’s tried phoning Mycroft - but the bastard won’t return his calls. He’s tried going through newspapers for some indication of a Moriarty-like crime, but it’s not helped. He needs someone on the inside. He needs Greg Lestrade. John sighs. “I’ve not been up for much company as of late. I’m sorry, Greg. I know you and the others mean well, it’s just...”

“Too raw?” Greg offers.

“A bit,” he admits. 

Greg smiles sympathetically. “I’ll give you a ring should anything come up. Since Sherlock...well, things have been a bit quiet since the pool.”

John swallows painfully. “Of course. Thanks, Lestrade.”

“Greg.”

“Greg.” John stands, brushing imaginary lint from his clothes. 

“And John, Thursday night, half six, usual place?”

John tries to smile, but it sits oddly on his face. “I’ll try.” It’s all he can offer. Trying to promise something more than that would sit uneasily upon him when it inevitably turned out to be a lie. It’s hard enough on his own. If he has to deal with the sympathy - no, pity - of others, he’s likely to snap.

“That’s all I ask,” Greg says.

*****  
May 16, 2010**

The sky is a dark grey, promising to drop rain on him at any moment. That’s London, though. Since the pool, he’s been convinced that even the weather is reflecting his mood. John shifts his grip on the bags, leans a little more heavily on the cane for a moment, and picks up the pace. He has at least five more streets to walk before he gets home and he certainly doesn’t fancy doing it in a downpour.

The weather, however, seems to have it out for him. A single drop that tracks a path down the side of his nose heralds the start of the storm. Judging by how quickly each drop is followed by another, this rain is going to turn into a deluge. Fantastic. 

That is, of course, when the black car rolls to a stop beside him. It’s been several weeks since he last saw Mycroft. The man certainly hasn’t been returning his calls. Until, it seems, now. 

“Get in, John,” Mycroft says from the depths of the interior.

“Now you acknowledge I exist?”

“John.” It’s always amazed him how much Mycroft can convey with just one word. 

Fine.

He climbs into the car.

***

He’s let out at his front door twenty minutes later. John feels numb, to be honest. He expected Mycroft to tell him to leave it alone, to let Moriarty go. Instead, Mycroft handed him a thick folder containing a list of Moriarty’s current activities and gave him what amounted to his blessing.

He wonders when exactly he walked into the _Twilight Zone_. Admittedly, this is a Holmes. How can Mycroft be anything but unexpected?

*****  
May 20, 2010:**

**From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:**

I’m _fine_. Stop phoning me, Harry.

**Comments (3):**

**Harry (Reply?)**

You wanker. You absolute wanker. Like hell you’re fine! Answer your phone!

**Anonymous (Reply?)**

Poor puppy’s lost his master. How sad.

       
**John Watson (Reply?)**  
Who are you? Who the hell are you?

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2: Rumours of My Demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes an appearance, Moriarty looms over our heroes and John learns how to be sneaky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in this chapter's posting.

**May 21, 2010:**

Sherlock closes his eyes and simply breathes. In. Out. In. Out. The urge to leave, to let this reach its conclusion on Moriarty’s terms is strong. He should have been home by now. It should not have taken this long to flush out Moriarty’s organisation. 

Home. John. He can’t let himself think of his friend. If he does, if he allows himself to linger on that thought, he doesn’t know if he can continue this charade. Yet, he must. Moriarty cannot be allowed to continue. This is the only way. Otherwise, Moriarty may try for John again. Anger, sharp and brilliant, pierces through him and he has to struggle to force himself to breathe calmly. 

Emotions are useless. Pointless. They make his palms sweat, his heart beat just a little too fast, his attention span falter. He can’t afford to let them overwhelm him, yet they do. At the slightest hint of something that reminds him of John, they do.

He’s thought about trying to delete his memories of John, but he can’t go through with it. He’s tried pushing his memories of John into the smallest room of his mind palace, locked behind thick doors, but somehow they keep leaking out. It doesn’t matter what room he searches, John’s there. John is so intrinsically a part of his work; he can’t find the thread to separate them. Sherlock sighs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Pathetic.

Breathe, he commands himself. He needs to focus. He needs clarity. In. Count to seven. Release. Count to ten. In. Count to seven. Out. Count to ten. He opens his eyes and stares at the unassuming warehouse. This is where the clues have led him, to this warehouse in Moscow. This is where Moriarty’s people will strike next.

There. A scrape of a foot against concrete. Habitual shuffling, footsteps slightly uneven. One leg slightly longer than the other. The creak of leather, the soft clink of metal meeting metal. Two people are coming this way.

Sherlock crouches lower, using the shadows that surround the discarded boxes and bins to hide his presence. 

_“Are you sure?”_ a voice rough from too many cigarettes asks in thick Russian. The man pauses just under the light post. Tall. Weathered features, broken skin on his knuckles, scuffed and torn clothing. Muscle.

 _“Of course I am. The boss wouldn’t lie,”_ the other man replies, stopping just outside the pool of light. Impossible to deduce more than the probability of public schooling based on the accent. 

_“I thought the papers said he was dead.”_

Sherlock blinks. Impossible. He’s been careful.

_“The boss said there’ve been signs.”_

Cigarette man snorts. _“If this man’s as good as the boss says he is, there wouldn’t be any fecking signs. Could it be someone else? What about that man’s friend - the doctor?”_

 _John_. It’s a fight to remain still. He has the urge to reveal himself and demand to hear more. This is why emotions are a weakness. He curls his hands into fists, his nails biting into his skin. 

_“Maybe. Doesn’t matter, though. We’re not paid to worry about that. Leave it to the boss. Come on. We’ll have a coffee before our shift.”_

Five minutes later, the men are safely inside the warehouse and Sherlock hasn’t moved. He hasn’t been careless. His movements have been the characterization of covert. Yet he has to consider that he might not have been as stealthy as he could have been. If anyone where able to deduce his continued existence, it would be Moriarty.

John’s in danger.

Sherlock glances at the warehouse and then looks away. He cannot continue this particular mission. Not after this discovery.

There’s nothing stopping Moriarty now.

*****  
May 30, 2010:**

**From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:**

As some of you know, I was in hospital for a few hours this morning. I’m okay, really I am. Nothing’s broken; I just have a few scratches. I didn’t see that bike messenger. I definitely saw that lorry. Anyway, sorry for not writing. 

**Comments (2):**

**Harry (Reply?)**

Fuck this. I’m coming over.

    

  
**John Watson (Reply?)**  
Harry, I’m fine. See? I’m ringing.

*****  
May 31, 2010:**

“You son of a bitch,” Harry snarls and he has to actively force himself not to remind her that they have the same mother, thank you very much. 

This is why he hasn’t been phoning. This is why he’s been actively avoiding her. He doesn’t want to have to deal with his sister. “Harry, I’m fine,” he repeats for what has to be the fifth time in as many minutes. 

The stench of too much whiskey and gin wafts his way as she stops in front of him, poking his chest with a finger. “Yeah? And how am I supposed to know that? It’s like fucking Afghanistan all over again. The only way I’m going to know how you’re really doing is if I read it in some newspaper or if some stranger stops by to tell me you’re dead.”

John winces. “Harry...”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t you ‘Harry’ me. You’re being a bloody wanker. I know Sherlock’s dead, all right? I know you’re hurting. But that doesn’t mean you get to cut yourself off from your family.” She turns away from him, folding her arms. From the subtle tremor in her shoulders, he thinks she might be crying. He feels like a complete cad. “I know you don’t like me. Don’t you say a fucking word right now, John Hamish Watson, I need to get this out, all right? You don’t like me. I know that. I drink too much, I’m a complete tosser, I can’t hold down a job to save my life and I drove off the best thing that ever happened to me. But please don’t do this to me. I can’t take another loss right now, okay?”

He sighs and rests his hands on her shoulders, frowning when he feels how thin she’s become. Her shoulders are as sharp as blades. She’s still lovely, though. Even drunk and upset, she’s beautiful. It’s not fair that she got the better genes of the two of them. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

She does sob this time and he turns her around and gathers her into his arms. “I love you,” he says and she shakes her head, burying her face against his shoulder.

“You love me because you have to,” she replies softly. 

He never realised how truly screwed up his relationship was with his sister until now. He can’t really deny her comment, much as he wants to. “Harry, please.”

She pulls away from his embrace and looks at him, her mascara streaked from tears and lending her delicate features a dark, bruised look. Her eyes are bloodshot, but that tends to be typical when she’s had too much to drink. However, despite the drink, her gaze seems to be too sober for that. “How are you, really? Don’t give me that ‘fine’ crap.”

John pauses for a moment, considering. “I’m...surviving. Best I can.”

Harry visibly deflates and nods. “Good. Call me once in a while, okay? I can’t just learn about your life from your blog. Maybe we can...I don’t know, do lunch?”

The thought’s almost laughable, but she’s obviously trying. He knows if it weren’t for this situation, they’d be shouting at each other. They tend to love each other more from a distance. Yet, he can’t deny her this. If that’s what she wants, well, she’ll get it. He deliberately doesn’t scoff that this will work once, maybe twice, before it’s back to the way it was. “We can try that.”

Harry gives him a watery smile. “Good. Next Tuesday. Half noon. Carson’s Deli.” She’s already extracting herself from his arms and moving towards the door. She pauses before she leaves, turning her head enough so she can see his face. “Don’t forget, John. Please.”

“I won’t,” he promises.

After she pulls the door closed behind her, John leans his head against the cool wood and simply breathes. Dealing with Harry is always an emotional roller coaster. It could’ve been worse, much worse. He never knows what Harry he’s going to deal with - this version, at least, while drunk was relatively calm. He hates dealing with the angry drunk, the “sobbing her heart out” drunk, and the “blames the world” drunk. 

John sighs and pushes off from the door, forcing thoughts of his sister from his mind. There’s a pile of papers waiting for his attention on the table. Some are case files that Lestrade’s dropped off for his review. Some are his own notes from going through newspapers and online forums. All of them are somehow - at least in his mind - tied to Moriarty.

It’s disheartening, really, to see just how many bastards have benefited from having Moriarty as their ‘fairy godmother’. He’s got his fingers everywhere, and it seems like no sooner has he taken care of one problem, another one pops up. He’s like a fucking hydra. You cut off one head and two more pop into place.

He sinks into one of the chairs and rubs his hand across his face. John can’t stop now. _Sherlock_ wouldn’t stop now, and neither will he. He sighs and pulls a paper towards him, tracing links and identifying objectives. It’s slow, frustrating work, but he does manage to find his next target.

Tonight, he vows. Tonight he’ll track down one Mr James Bueller and stop him from killing his wife.

*****  
June 26, 2010:**

Moriarty knows. It’s the only explanation. The last three sites he’s been to, there’ve been little notes. Taken alone, they’d be mysterious, perhaps mildly concerning, but nothing to worry about. Together they spell out a threat.

‘Poor puppy’ the first one reads, written with a barely legible scrawl on the wall of a warehouse in Paris.

‘So very alone.’ The second reads, this time spray-painted in bright yellow across a bin outside the Museo del América in Madrid.

The last one drives him back to London. ‘He misses you, S.’ It was carved into a bench in a small park in Milan. It’s a trap. It’s obviously a trap, but he doesn’t care. He’s had enough. Enough of the deception, enough of the chase, enough of being one step behind Moriarty.

If the man wants a confrontation - admittedly, it’s another confrontation, but that’s semantics - he’ll get one. Sherlock Holmes is going home. 

*****  
July 1, 2010:**

Exhaustion weighs heavily upon him, his eyes barely staying open as he collapses onto the couch. He’s starting to understand why Sherlock tended to sleep here rather than in his bed. It’s strangely comfortable, though there are still dents where someone far taller than he used to rest. If he breathes deeply, he can almost catch the barest whiff of smoke, chemicals and tea that characterised his friend.

John yawns and closes his eyes. It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week. No, it’s been a long several months since, well, since. Sometimes, he wishes it were all a dream. It feels like a dream, like at any moment he’s going to wake up and find out that these past few months didn’t happen and Sherlock will walk through the door and life is back to normal. Well, his version of normal.

He doesn’t work at the surgery any more. He hasn’t done since the pool. Apparently not showing up for several weeks after he was released from hospital is the equivalent of a resignation - who knew? Still, there are times he misses it. It’s a distraction, a reminder that there is life outside 221B. Sarah would only keep him on out of pity, of course. She’d re-hire him if he asked - he knows that, even though it’s a ridiculous thought. Who would want a locum doctor who isn’t reliable enough to come in when he says he will? He doesn’t even have the excuse of saying Sherlock’s responsible any more.

Admittedly, he doesn’t truly want to work there any more. It wasn’t safe for Sarah, the patients, the nurses or the other doctors. To be honest, it wasn’t safe for him either.

He’d lose himself there; become a shade of the man he was and he couldn’t abide that. He needs the chase - the game, as Sherlock called it. It’s a stop-gap measure, he knows that, but he tells himself he’ll be able to rest and let himself rejoin the rest of the human race once it’s finished.

It won’t be over until Moriarty and everyone he’s ever dealt with are either six feet under or in jail. He knows exactly which of those options he prefers. It’s hard, though. Sure, he’s done a bit. He’s found a few small time operatives. Those he’s turned over to Lestrade - no reason to sully his hands with them. He’s got bigger fish to go after once he’s dealt with the peripherals. 

Tonight he was on a stakeout. Boring, perhaps, but he has this feeling it’ll bear fruit. He’s noticed that there’ve been a few more shipments going into a supposedly small-time imports and exports business near the docks. Coupling that with a hint from Mycroft’s files, he’s found his next target.

He won’t make a move just yet. He needs more data - he’s no Sherlock Holmes, so he can’t make a magical leap from the beginning to the end. He doesn’t know enough, not yet, to be certain he’s really on to something other than a gut feeling. Hence the stakeout.

Nothing happened, though. He decided to come home, get some sleep, and get back at it once he’s rested. He’ll miss things like this and that’s not something he can afford.

He’s about to drift off when something changes. He goes from half asleep to awake in an instant, his muscles tensing in preparation as the instincts drilled into him by the British Army come into play. There. The creaky stair, about three steps up from the ground floor. He misses it by instinct now, and only those who are unfamiliar with the stairwell tend to hit it. 

He isn’t expecting anyone, and Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister this weekend. Lestrade would call before he stopped by. Mycroft tends to actively avoid the flat, preferring to pick him up somewhere along the street as he’s out and about. There’s no-one else who bothers to visit him since he’s become something of a recluse after Sherlock’s death. 

John carefully uncurls himself from the couch and reaches for his gun. It’s right where he left it, discarded rather carelessly on the coffee table when he returned to the flat. Given the easy line of sight from the doorway to the couch, he stands and moves to one side, pressing himself against the wall.

His heart picks up speed and he carefully controls his breathing, trying to remain as silent as possible. For a moment, he has a flashback to hot sand, firefights and insurgents, but he shakes it off with a force of will. Here and now. Here and now, he reminds himself again.

He can practically sense the person - persons? He can’t tell - outside the door and he watches the doorknob twist one way, then the other in slow motion. It’s locked, but the lock is old and it won’t take much force to break in. The knob ceases its motion and now he can hear the person trying to open the door to the kitchen.

John slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile, glancing down at the stubbornly dark screen. Damnit, he forgot to charge it again. There’s no help from that quarter and his laptop is across the room - too far for him to go if he wants to be prepared for the inevitable break in.

Fine.

He can do this. 

The person’s now back at the front door, only this time he can hear them fumbling with the lock. He’s tempted to open the door, startle them perhaps into making a fatal mistake. They’re taking too damned long. 

That’s when he hears it. A click and the door’s unlocked.

He cocks the gun.

The door opens, but no-one comes in. Surely they don’t realise he’s waiting for them. Right?

“I’d prefer to not be shot, to be honest,” Sherlock answers his unasked question. John barely manages to have the presence of mind to engage the safety on his gun before his knees give out on him.

Collapsing when you’re still dealing with injuries from the pool isn’t fun. To be frank, it bloody hurts. He thought the influx of pain would drive away the hallucination, but instead it only seems to enhance it. 

“John?” Sherlock asks - but this isn’t possible. Sherlock’s - _alive_ \- dead. Isn’t he? He didn’t see the body, but he saw the - _forged_ \- post-mortem report. Mycroft - _lies_ \- told him Sherlock was dead. But that’s a very real weight causing the floorboards to creak. That’s a very real hand that wraps around the edge of the door. He knows those fingers; he knows that hand.

The apparition cautiously enters the room. Despite the unfamiliar clothing, it’s so very clearly Sherlock. A bit lankier than before, perhaps. He can’t help but diagnose malnutrition from his appearance. This isn’t possible. This isn’t fucking possible.

“You’re dead,” he says slowly, blinking his eyes. Is this some new form of PTSD? Isn’t it enough that he sometimes has flashbacks to Afghanistan, now he has to have flashbacks to Sherlock, too?

Sherlock waves his hand. “Obviously not. Think, John. Did you see my body? Did you perform the post-mortem yourself?”

John forces himself to his feet wincing as the motion sends a sharp jab of pain through his ankle.

His friend - hallucination? Can he still be his friend when he’s a ghost? - takes an aborted step towards him, stopping only when John moves his hand sharply. He doesn’t want to touch Sherlock just yet. He doesn’t want confirmation either that he’s mad or Sherlock’s a bastard for making him think he was dead just yet. 

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“You’re in danger,” Sherlock says simply. “Moriarty is-“

Anger, sudden and brilliant floods him, driving away any lingering ache. “Moriarty. Of course it’s fucking Moriarty. It’s always Moriarty. Even when you’re dead, you’re still obsessed.”

Something in Sherlock’s face softens. “John...”

“No. Just no. I don’t want to hear it,” John says, turning away. Maybe if he doesn’t see the hallucination it’ll go away? 

A hand - a warm, _alive_ hand - rests on his shoulder. “John.”

His heart breaks - that’s got to be the source of this sensation and he thought that happened before, when he thought Sherlock was dead. “No. No, no, no. You can’t. It...”

“I meant to be back before you woke up,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“It’s been three months,” John retorts, stiffening under the touch. “You fucking lied to me. Mycroft lied to me.”

“To protect you.”

John shrugs off the hand and turns, fury once again coursing through his veins and narrowing his eyes. “You bastard.”

“I think you will find that my parents were very much married,” Sherlock replies.

The punch isn’t telegraphed, isn’t something he even thought about before it happened. But damn is it satisfying to see Sherlock stumble back, hand lifted to his mouth where a bit of blood is starting to trickle free. 

“Feel better?” Sherlock doesn’t seem surprised by the hit. Rather, he seems to have been expecting it.

“No, you wanker. You lied to me.”

“Yes, yes, I lied. You were - are - in danger. It was the most reliable method to ensure your safety. I failed to take into account that you would continue my work without me.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.

“Of course I did. Moriarty needs to be stopped,” John retorts.

“He does,” Sherlock agrees. “But you’ve been going about it wrong. You’re drawing attention to yourself. Moriarty’s noticed.”

Good. He knows he should probably be worried that Moriarty knows what he’s doing, but why bother? This is what he’s been on about for months. He always knew it’d come to this. He was pecking away at the small fish in Moriarty’s pond one by one until the bastard finally cottoned on. “That’s the ruddy _point_. You know what he called me right before you showed up at that pool? He called me a puppy, a loyal dog who followed his master wherever he led. He even called me that on my blog, and I don’t care. This dog’s got teeth and it’s about time he realised it.”

Sherlock’s wearing his ‘you’re an idiot, John’ expression. “Bravery. How droll. That won’t help you against him.”

John’s eyes narrow. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Hmm. You make a good show at it, true. John, he’s coming after you.”

“How do you know?”

“There were threats. Written words scattered across several countries,” Sherlock replies.

John sighs. “And what makes you think that wasn’t a trap?”

“It is a trap for me, which is why it’s brilliant.”

Of course it is. “So what now? You show up, reveal you’re alive, and then what? We kill Moriarty and go on with our lives?”

Now Sherlock grins. “Yes.”


End file.
